In Sleep He Sang to Me
by NeverTooOldToBeNerdy
Summary: simple one shot. Prose poem trying more for mood and atmosphere and the sheer joy of using words. Read, review, be kind to each other.
1. Chapter 1: In Sleep He Sang to Me

First attempt for this site - hopefully I haven't made it too heavy (or too light).

It's an experiment in mood and prose poetry rather than plot - so enjoy it for what you can get from it, reviews may make me feel like writing more (or less, who knows?)

**In Sleep He Sang to Me**

In sleep, he makes it almost too hard to breathe.

He seems so young, so fragile.

Sharp, delicate cheekbones beneath flawless alabaster skin. His soft, oh-so-kissable lips parted slightly, the cupid's bow of his mouth quivering as his breath enters and leaves. The rise and fall of his smooth , carved marble chest.

It is hidden, now, beneath the crumpled, faded t-shirt he wears.

In his sleep the crisp cotton sheet has fallen slightly, revealing a crescent of skin upon the boy's back, where said t-shirt has ridden up from the slight movements of his dreaming.

The skin there is as flawless as that of his face.

The gentle sweep of his back, the curve of his spine, the swell of his buttocks beneath the grey sweatpants, all this beauty revealed and unguarded beneath the soft light of the not-quite-full moon. His hair lies across the pillow, tousled and untamed – such a far cry from the waking state.

In sleep he seems a creature from a dream.

In action he screams with life and emotion.

Despite the soft, gentle stillness of his current form – the keen observer can see – the subtle play of muscles beneath his outflung arms, the oh so slight bruises barely visible on his well articualted feet. Dancer's feet, walker's feet – the feet of one to whom fashionable footwear is no stranger.

In action he moves like a dancer, like a panther. No, not like a panther – for even they have to touch the ground sometimes. In action he moves like an angel. He floats through the world, and world seems to move itself for his convenience.

In action his eyes flash, every colour and none. Grey, blue, green – they change with his mood, with his clothes, with the thoughts of those who dare to meet that fierce gaze. Are eyes really the window to the soul? If they are then this boy has plate glass picture windows that soar from cellar to rooftop, barely containing the light the rises from the angel's heart within.

No wonder an angel's first words to those it greets are invariably **_Fear Not_**

In sleep the eyes are closed, and it is now safe to look upon the other perfections of his form.

Without the danger of becoming consumed utterly by the power of those eyes it is possible to linger on the soft, lustruous hair which lies on the pillow, the long, almost feminine lashes. The faint blush beneath the skin of his long neck. The movement of those coral lips...

The spark of light as his eyes open and note the regard of his silent observer.

**_Oh, there you are_,**

the boy who is watching feels his soul begin to melt

**_I've been looking for you forever._**


	2. Chapter 2: In Dreams, He Came

Ok, turns out it WASN'T a one-shot after all - who knew? (and apparently I've got Lloyd-Webber playing a sound track somewhere deep in my subconscious to boot!)

**In Dreams, He Came**

Crisp cotton sheets, high thread count, plain white, no patterns, no frills.

Handmade patchwork quilt. Handmade, homemade, made by hands he can barely recall.

Made by hands he can never forget.

He dreams.

He knows He dreams. The world is splashed with moonlight and candlelight and the light of a million stars.

He floats in darkness, surrounded by, yet not touched by the light.

Crisp cotton sheets

He feels the bed give ever so slightly, as if a light weight, perhaps the muscular frame of a lithe young man were resting there, beside him.

Beside him on his crisp, white sheets

In the logic of the dream world, for he knows he dreams, the moonlight and the darkness and the million stars coalesce into a form he knows so well, and yet has never seen before this moment.

A creature of shadows and starlight lies beside him.

In his dream He hears the music of the stars, he hears the breathing of the beautiful, familiar stranger, he hears every song they have sung together, he hears every song they have yet to sing.

He hears the rustle of his crisp, white sheets as he turns in his dream, his sleeping body perhaps trying to dance to the music it does not really hear.

He hears the soft sigh of a soul in rapture, so near, so very near to him.

He feels the warm glow of the other's body, across the cooling distance of his crisp, white sheets.

He knows this warmth, he knows this smell, this gravity of souls.

He knows he is dreaming, and now he knows he must awake.

His ears tell him that it is still night, no morning noises, no distant radios or passing traffic.

He hears the soft sighing of a person breathing near him, he feels their warmth, their breath upon his chest, upon the bare chest where the collar of the soft warm t-shirt he wears sags and gapes.

He smells lavender and coffee and hair gel and mint and nutmeg and pencil shavings and soap and sweat and expensive cologne and crisp, white, cotton sheets.

Still half dreaming the boy of starlight and shadow, the child of his dream begins to solidify.

His heart pounds as he feels and hears the blood surge within his body, as if the moon and the stars of this boy he feels so near pull at the essence of his being stronger than any tide has ever touched any ocean.

His eyes finally part, slightly, and he sees moonlight and starlight and candles and shadow that are NOT a dream.

He sees a boy who most definitely is.

He sees and feels and smells and hears a boy who is a dream made real.

He sees the dark eyes beneath their expressive brows meeting his gaze.

The dream bursts from him, and into the world, fully formed, fully real, fully his.

**_I've been looking for you forever_**

His sigh sings as he watches the other smile and melt before his gaze

**_Oh, HERE you are._**


End file.
